


This House

by captivation



Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captivation/pseuds/captivation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After too many years of death and blood and sadness and loss there was finally something bright in this house; something so freshly dead it was still full of light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This House

Violet knew she was dead.  
  
Tate knew he was dead.  
  
Violet knew she loved Tate, even if she hadn’t said it yet.  
  
Tate knew he loved Violet, and would tell her every chance he got.  
  
Because this house had driven him mad, and he had done bad things to good people.  
  
But this house had given him Violet. He may have been the reason she had taken her own life, but this house would hold them together.  
  
After too many years of death and blood and sadness and loss there was finally something bright in this house; something so freshly dead it was still full of light.  
  
Violet was the spark that would keep this house and the ghosts inside of it alive.  
  
And Tate got to love her, touch her, lose his bullet-ridden soul to her.  
  
Every day, there was no more worrying she would be taken away from him. She was stuck here, safe.  
  
This house had taken so many lives, but given Tate’s back.  
  
With Violet, he was new and clean, because she loved him despite the guns he had fired, the matches he had thrown, the drugs he had done.  
  
She let him follow her around the house like a shadow, because death could seem achingly lonely sometimes.  
  
They didn’t really sleep much nowadays, but Violet liked to lounge around and rest her eyes. Tate would watch her. He liked to pretend she was actually asleep and dreaming; maybe of when she was alive, when she was younger and her parents were happy. Or maybe she dreamed of Tate.  
  
That night on the beach when he had said no to something he now desperately wanted.  
  
Or that night in the basement when he had scared her in the rubber suit, but she had liked it.  
  
Or that time he had found her cutting and made her promise never to do it again.  
  
Or of times to come; nights spent curled around each other, endless card games, whispered teasings that would make the secret places between Violet’s legs warm and wet.  
  
Maybe after some more time together in this house she would let Tate put his fingers, mouth, dick, between her legs, somewhere only her own fingers had gone before. Maybe after she had finally told Tate she loved him, she could lie back and twist and whimper under his cold, dead body pressed to her own.  
  
This house had finally created something good, something loving and wholesome. Just two teenagers, naïve, wise to the harsh ways of the world, and in love.  
  
And they would remain in this house always, thriving in death, together for eternity.


End file.
